Monthly Archives: September 2012

My college friend Lee Woehle silkscreened this more than 30 years ago. I think it may just be a proof. But I love it. And it goes where I go.

As precious as it is to me, I’ve never framed it. Never protected it. I just keep tacking it up. In apartments, cubes, houses, offices. It is dog-eared and yellowed.

And every time my eye catches it, I think, “Should I frame you? To keep you safe from the sun and dust?”

Then we both laugh and say, “Sorry, no thanks.”

It is Sunday night, and we are sitting here watching the Bears game in our media-blackout mode, which means we record it, then watch it as soon as we’re back from the lake. We avoid all live media/texts/phone calls while traveling. Officer Ginger is off tonight, so she’s curled up next to me, commenting and conversating.

Ginger: “Mom, you haven’t blogged in a while.”

Me: “Haven’t really felt a story.”

Bill: “Oh, the male hummingbirds have already migrated.”

Ginger: “What? They left the females behind?”

Me: “Yeah, and you’d think they’d be nice to each other, with all the guys gone. Going shoe shopping and getting mani-pedis. But they’re being really mean and greedy.”

Ginger: “Oh. They’re the Real Hummingbirds of Beverly Hilllbillies.”

Bill: *sigh*

We’re sitting here eating supper in front of the TV, watching the Country Music Awards. And if I had TV trays and Velveeta and Rotel tomatoes, we’d be eating Rotel dip on our TV trays and we’d OWN it. Oh, wait. I do have TV trays, Velveeta, and Rotel. And, well, maybe that’s what we’ll have for dessert. So there.

When the CMA teaser said Hank Williams, Jr., was coming up, I tossed aside my filet mignon and grabbed my laptop for a quick ginnygram. This one goes out to my Nashville — wait! Band Perry is doing “Fat Bottom Girls”  — wow — I’m back — friends.

ANYWAY! In 1966 or 1967, Daddy finished commercial flight school, and we all moved to Nashville, where he started flying for American Airlines. I was in the 4th grade. Bucky and I went to Burton Elementary School, where Pat Boone went to grammar school. And although I cannot find proof this was the real reason, we were told Dottie West’s house had burned down so she had to enroll Shelly at Burton; and Shelly was in Mama’s and my Girl Scout troop and in my classroom. Up the hill from us, Donna Fargo handed out FULL-SIZE Sweet-Tarts for Halloween. And Mama and I have recently remembered how she and Daddy got all dressed up to see Mel Tillis record. At Acuff-Rose, perhaps?

I have lots of really good — and some bittersweet — memories from those few years in Nashville. Bet you’ll read some future ginnygrams about our Tennessee years.

Here’s a funny Nashville memory for us: Gigi and Bruce had friends who lived next-door to Hank Williams, Jr. Or close to him, anyway. And when we’d go over to their house, we kids would sneak over to Hank Junior’s unlocked garage. He had a big stuffed owl in there and we’d peep in and dang-near scream! Its wings were all outstretched and it was AWESOME! We didn’t scream, because we knew we shouldn’t oughtta be there, and well, he was famous and all. And probably had dogs and bodyguards and stuff.

He didn’t. And I thank him for that.

Bill and I drove by our first house today, so I jumped out  of the car to take a picture for this story.

We bought this little bungalow in 1986. Ginger was four. Bill worked nights. And we couldn’t afford a real moving company. But that’s okay, because we really only had maybe five pieces of furniture, which Bill’s buddies brought over in an old Bell Telephone van.

In the evenings, before our actual moving day, Ginger and I would carry over a little bit, and a little bit, and a little bit more, from our apartment. And because it was just us we’uns, it was never anything big or heavy. Which meant that it was dishes, linens, pantry stuff, and all of Ginger’s toys.

Whenever we packed Ginger’s things into the car, I’d say that we were taking her things to her new house and her new room!

And when we got to the new house, I’d tell her that this was her new house and her new room!

One evening, when we had pretty much emptied her room at the apartment, Ginger started to cry.

Thinking she was just sad to be leaving her room (which, by the way is where she wrote GIGNER on the wall and blamed it on her dad), I said, “Oh, sweetie, it’s okay, you’ll love your new house and your new room!”

Little four-year-old Ginger looked at me through her tears and said, “I know. I just wish you and Daddy were moving there with me.”

Man, did I just get busted.

CRIME: Running out of maple syrup. And substituting sorghum.

MOTIVE:  I volunteered to make maple bacon for a wedding-shower brunch at work tomorrow. But I miscalculated on the maple syrup. And I needed something gooey to drizzle on the rest of the bacon strips to candy ’em up. I almost always have Kentucky sorghum in the cupboard, because I don’t go through it very quickly AND it lasts for years. So sorghum bacon was born tonight, my friends.

WITNESS: My husband caught me tasting (re-tasting) (re-re-tasting!) the drippings of the candied-sorghum-bacon drippings in the bottom of the pan. He actually testified that my eyes were rolled back in my head. Is that even legal?

EVIDENCE: Sticky fingers.

VERDICT: Oh, girl, you are so totally guilty!

SENTENCE: Step on the scale tomorrow.

All day, I have felt like I have needed a good cry. My tears were constantly about to breach their levee. My heart felt so full. And you may think you know why, but there’s a different reason. Or an additional reason, perhaps.

Last night I had a visit from Vivian, Bill’s mother, who died more than 10 years ago. It is the first time I’ve talked with her since she left us. And frankly, I’m a little surprised she showed up in my overnight dreams. Let’s just say that she wasn’t the warmest woman in the world.

I showed her the house. She laughed because it is messier than it was when it was hers. (It isn’t messy. It just has more-better stuff.) She asked about some people. And when I asked how she could be possibly be here, she said “they get two visits.” It was nice to see her again.

Over these many years, in the wee dreamnight hours, I’ve enjoyed visiting with my grandfather and Bill’s grandfather. I once scolded Mar Mar for not being nice in her later years, and she never showed up again. Ginger had a visit from her Papa while she was at the police academy — he told her everything would be all right, and that she’d be assigned to 014th District. It was, and she was.

So this morning, when I told Bill that I’d visited with his mother last night, he smiled and said that he’d spent time with his grandmother last night! He’d looked for his mother, because they were in the old farm house, but he couldn’t find her.

Because she was here. With me.

Doesn’t he look kind of R2D2 in a very wooden and sturdy kind of way? Sometimes, out of the corner of my eye, I think I see him give a little wink or shuffle. When I oil his back, I think he sighs a contented sigh.

He is the butcher block from Gigi and George’s kitchen, and we happily adopted him into the lake-house kitchen when Gigi moved into her Wendy home. He carries a lot of warm memories of family suppers on Third Street. And brunches and lunches, for that matter. He has shouldered a lot of responsibility for serving our lovely patchwork family over the years.

He asked me to send a note to Gigi and the rest of you: He’s doing just fine, but he misses you and he’d like to see you again.

Here’s what football season means to me. On Friday nights, as soon as we get to the lake house, we get to watch the Wabash Valley high-school recap on the local news. (I just love it. I have my little flashback moments of pep buses and Marching Admirals.) Then on Saturdays, Bill drags this little TV to the summer kitchen, where we watch the Notre Dame game and whatever wildlife graces us. Then on Sundays, we head home, on a media blackout, so we can watch the Bears break our hearts on DVR.

Even as I write this tonight, I don’t know who wins. Bears or Colts. But it doesn’t really matter. I’m a weekday Chicagoan and a weekend Hoosier.